


Names are not Gifts

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M, Niki makes bad decisions and is a terrible judge of character part 4, References to Child Abuse, cursed ship, name angst, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Niki has never had a surname. It’s just that none of them seem to fit. It’s just that they are not people she can be.But she cannot be the person she was back then, either.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You gotta understand going into this that Niki is an extremely unreliable narrator and that I want Fermet to _Choke_ and that this is me lamenting the fact that she doesn't want him to choke. I feel like that's a necessary disclaimer because this is tagged as Cursed Ship as a warning but I do not... think they're good.

Eggs from the market, books from the library, shirt from the tailor.

She had run errands for her previous workshop, too; that much hadn’t changed. It was the nature of them. It was what they required of her. Four years ago she had braced herself for errands the way she would brace herself for a thunderstorm, blocking off her senses to block off her fear and hoping that lightning would not strike too hard. Then the list was: keep your head down, make the exchange, let them take what they want, bring the money back, say nothing, feel nothing, show nothing.

Now the list was: eggs from the market, books from the library, shirt from the tailor.

— And she was supposed to _smile_. She was supposed to smile and say _please_ and _thank you_ and _have a nice day_ , and pretend that these were not the same people who stood by and watched while boys and men beat her bloody over business she did not choose to be a part of.

They didn’t recognise her, usually. There wasn’t much of the frail, battered girl left to see in her these days, only a few faded scars in places that were easily covered. Her features were more rounded, not gaunt and bony as they had been, and she’d grown — only slightly, but it had come as a surprise to her, that being well-nourished could change so much. Even her tattered dress had been thrown out; what she wore now was nothing _extravagant_ , but it was clean and warm, and fit her as clothes were meant to.

They didn’t recognise her, but sometimes she’d recognise _them_ — as a couple who had accused her of stealing, or a woman who refused to sell to her when she had not eaten in days, or a man who had grabbed her by the arm and spat in her face when she’d told him that she was not offering the _services_ he was looking for. Sometimes she could see the ghost of a red ring around her wrist or a bruise on her arm — only the ghosts of them, memory trying to step into her present. Sometimes this city felt so familiar, so unchanging, that she would find herself ducking her head and pushing through crowds with the same frightful urgency she had then. Sometimes she felt the palpable dread that if she made a mistake she would be punished, even knowing that this was no longer true.

When this happened, she returned to what she knew. She blocked out the world and repeated to herself:

 _Eggs from the market, books from the library, shirt from the tailor_.

Until her heartbeat fell into the same steady rhythm and she could breathe again.

“Name?”

“Niki,” she murmured, with a tremor that should not have been there, then she remembered when and where she was and said: “— Sorry, it should be for _Meyer_.”

The tailor clicked his tongue and she bit hers. It felt unnatural to speak to these people — to speak to _people_ at all — when it had been decided from childhood that she was categorically beneath them. It was different now, but that did not change her expectations; when one grew up a burden, every narrowed eye and derisive click of the tongue felt like a pointed accusation. He was looking down on her. She was sure. They always were.

“I’ll take a look,” he told her, and she could not decide whether the exasperation in his voice disquieted or satisfied her. Sometimes she hated these people, Lotto Valentino and everyone in it; sometimes she only hated that she would never feel at ease here.

He disappeared into the backroom and she waited.

Czeslaw had retreated to the far end of the room not long after they’d climbed the steps. He was shy around strangers, and she thought this might have been a blessing in disguise; if he never got involved with anyone in this city that would be for the better. For every good person he might have met there were ten who could abide by letting a child like him suffer — and she could not decide whether she hated them for it, but if he could live a life far away from all of that then he _should_. If his shyness meant staying out of the world she’d grown up in, that was for the better.

He was gazing out the window, small hands pressed to the glass, head turning in slow repetition, all the way to the left then all the way to the right. At home his bedroom faced the alleyway and hers faced the streets; he’d once knocked on her door just to sit and watch from a better perspective. She supposed there were not many other ways for such a withdrawn child to occupy his time, and he seemed to amuse himself with it. What must it have been like to look out and be _entranced_? These streets had always been foul and uninteresting things through her eyes.

“Here you are, Miss Meyer.”

The tailor returned, shirt in hand, and Niki turned to say _thank you_ in those somewhat livelier tones she’d been practicing, but she paused before the words left her mouth. _Miss Meyer_.

“No, I’m not —”

Her brow furrowed. It was an easy mistake to make. It _shouldn’t_ have bothered her, and yet it _did_ , because she was Niki, just _Niki_ , and now she was being mistaken for _Niki Meyer_ — who must have been another entity entirely, some never born version of her who had the right to a name, to a family, to a history. This was not her, and it was unnervingly dissonant to hear. _Miss Meyer_ ; the notes did not fit the melody of her life.

“Do you want your brother to try it on?”

She followed his eyes to Czeslaw and immediately shook her head — _no, he’s not my brother_ — which read to him as a _no_ to his question. The boy looked on with a wide, curious stare, and only meeting it did she realise how odd it must have looked for her to falter.

“No. No, he’s — he’s shy,” she decided to respond. Half-truths were instinct now; she was not sure _why_ she didn’t tell him she was not who he thought she was, but she was sure that she was never going to.

“We’ll come back if it needs altering,” she said far too quickly, handing over a sum of coins, taking the shirt when it was held out to her and moving to take Czeslaw’s hand the next instant. She could only think that she wanted to leave as soon as possible; she would have preferred it if this one _had_ recognised her, if he had seen her as one of those nameless children — at least she was used to that. She didn’t know how to even _pretend_ to be the person he was suggesting she was, and, made a liar by his assumptions, she fled like a criminal, tugging the boy — who was _not_ her brother — behind.

Eggs from the market, books from the library — and then back to the workshop, and away from these streets and all the memories and all the questions they held.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Czeslaw tugged at her sleeve when they stepped outside, and she paused obligingly. He had held his curiosity off long enough that she could no longer justify evading it.

“Why did he call you ‘Miss Meyer’?”

She hugged the fabric to her chest — fabric which was far softer than anything _she_ had worn at his age — and sighed.

“I guess he thought that was my name.”

Czeslaw was silent for a moment, and then, tilting his head, asked: “What _is_ your name?”

“You know my name, Czes.” She looked down at him, deadpan expression untouched by the pang of bitterness which came when she said: “It’s Niki.”

“Uh-huh, but…” He scrunched up his nose, searching for the right words. “But what’s your other name?”

Niki was silent for a moment, then she turned and began walking again, her grip on his hand a bit tighter than it had been before.

“You get your last name from your family,” she explained. “I don’t have one.”

She did not know whether she meant she had no family or no last name, but it didn’t matter because both were equally true. The bald man was the closest thing she could remember having to a parent, and she preferred not to remember anything about him at all. She did not _want_ his name, even if he had given it to her. He _hadn’t_ — she almost wished he had so that she could disown it of her own accord, but he hadn’t. She had nothing to part with because she’d had _nothing_ in the first place.

She didn’t say all this. She _couldn’t_ — not to Czeslaw. She’d seen enough perfectly good children ruined by reality, and he had already lost family; she couldn’t bring herself to be the person who told him that the world only gets worse and _worse_ the more you live in it. So she told him she did not have one, and left it at that. She didn’t expect him to _argue_.

“You do, Niki! Fermet says you’re _our_ family now.”

“He says that — to you?”

He nodded, a small smile lighting up on his face. Niki clutched the shirt a bit tighter, willing her heart not to leap the way it did; the man had said as much to _her_ before, but she had assumed he was only doing so to be kind. To tell someone else meant that he truly felt it to be true, and that was —

That was too high of a hope for her to reach for.

“So you should have a last name… since you have a family.”

“That’s not how it works.” She turned her attention ahead of her, to the cobblestone streets she grew up on and the the familiar market stalls; if she could have, perhaps she would have chosen to be _Niki Meyer_ , to grow up alongside Czeslaw, to face tragedies, too, but to know at every turn that she would be well-looked after — but she couldn’t let herself think that. “Besides, you and Mr. Fermet don’t have the same surname — and neither does Mr. Begg. How would I know which one to have?”

“Um.” He thought for a moment. “Can’t you just have them all?”

Niki tried to think of a serious response to this, but faced with Czeslaw’s childishness even _she_ couldn’t help but smile.

“ _Niki Meyer Viralesque Garott_?” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone would be able to remember that, Czes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“It was very strange.”

“ _Good_ strange?”

“I don’t know.”

This hushed exchange took place between the bookshelves of the Third Library. Even with the help of the note Fermet had given her, Niki would have struggled to match the handwritten titles to the ones printed on the spines on her own; they were all just symbols to her, and without consistency they were impossible to recognise. The instructions had been to hand the list to Renee and have _her_ find the books, but she had run into Elmer at the steps and, with his usual boundless enthusiasm, he had offered his help.

She couldn’t decline. She didn’t like asking for help — she was _tired_ of being dependent on people she barely knew — and Elmer spared her that loss of pride every time. He never _made_ her ask.

“I’ve thought about it before.”

They moved along slowly, Elmer scanning shelf by shelf and handing Niki the books when he found them. The stack was up to three of a total seven. She had supposed this was an exceptional amount of books to go through as quickly as Fermet did — he’d finished the last set of them in less than a week — but when she’d said as much to Elmer, he had laughed and told her that Huey usually went through twice as many in that time. She had told him she wouldn’t know, she had only _supposed_ , and the topic had changed quickly.

“I’ve never known anything about having a family. I guess anyone would be curious, just to… to know what it’s like.”

Her shoulders lifted into a shrug. This would be the part where Elmer told her to laugh, to forget about all her worries — as though they were so easily forgotten. He dropped another book into her open arms, and remained facing her longer than he needed to, an unreadable smile on his lips.

“If you really want a surname, you can have mine.”

She stared at him, then glanced over to Czeslaw — still sitting patiently a little ways away — then stared at him a little longer and, in a voice scarcely more audible than the soft rustling of a page turning, said: “Are you _proposing_?”

Elmer seemed about as flustered by the question as _she_ was by the implication, rubbing the back of his neck and grinning sheepishly.

“Not in a _romantic_ way. I still don’t like you like that.”

She let out a sigh of relief. He continued.

“But the way I see it, neither of us can really get married, right?”

“… You can say that about _yourself_ , Elmer, but it’s rude to assume that about other people.”

“But you can’t, right?”

She nodded even before hearing what explanation he had to offer. She was not of a status worth marrying into; no dowry, and no title to inherent. Even amongst the working class she had less to offer than most. More than that, she struggled to imagine herself living long enough to _be_ a wife or bride.

— And even if she _did_ live long enough, would she want to? She had went through so much to free herself of being bound to another person; she wasn’t sure she could be happy _giving herself away_.

It was an honest assertion for many reasons, and so she nodded.

“If you got married and then found your place to die, your husband would end up sad, and I can’t let that happen.” This was such an _Elmer_ concern — concern that was more self-serving than anything else, and it brought a wry smile to her face. If he had been worried for _her_ sake she would have been humbled by it, would have seen it as _pity_ , but this? This was as far from worry for her sake as it came. “And if I got married, well… I can’t focus on just _one_ person’s happiness when there’s a whole world out there to make smile!”

Niki didn’t doubt this at all.

“But I don’t care if you die as long as you die happy, and you don’t care if ignore you for someone else because you don’t love me, either.”

“That’s true.”

He pulled another book down. Four for seven. This one had a swirling design framing its indecipherable title, which she thought looked excessive.

“I think it could be fun. If anyone asks we can pretend we love each other — it won’t matter that we don’t, as long as we give really big smiles when we say it! — and at your funeral I can tell everyone: _cheer up! We both got what we wanted!_ They can’t cry if your widow is laughing.”

“You know, Elmer, if anyone is awful enough to marry me, it’s you.”

It was surprisingly easy to picture it, which she supposed was because this possibility had been sitting in the back of her mind for years now. It would be so simple, pretending to love Elmer — a man who knew exactly who and what she was and had never contended to _fix_ it, a man who was broken in his own right and did not condemn her brokenness, a man who did not love her and whom she did not love, whom she could coexist with free of the burden of _feeling_. A man who was not cruel but was not _kind_. A man who would let her die when she found the right place for it, who would be smiling _with_ her when her life faded away. Perhaps he was right; perhaps she could even be happy.

It would be so simple, and if she was still the girl from all those years ago she could have contented herself with that innocent lie.

Now she wasn’t sure. She watched him smile and found herself reminded instead of the smile of another, reminded of the gentle curve of the lips that had accompanied the words: _whether or not you can smile when the time comes is a matter of how you have lived your life thus far_. She listened to his voice spill into laughter and she thought of _you have a home here_ and _you’re_ our _family now_ , and she sighed.

It would be so _simple_ to pretend to love Elmer, if only she had never learned how real love felt. There was no way she could satisfy herself with the cheap imitation now, even knowing that the imitation was more than she deserved.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” he asked, in that distinctly _Elmer_ tone — at once entirely serious and entirely joking. She shook her head, casting her eyes down to the books in her hands. Still four. Three more, then _home_.

“No.”

The bookshelves may have leaned in to hear her response.

“ _Niki Albatross_ sounds like a made-up name.”

— But they would be disappointed. Half-truths were instinct now.

“You’re probably right about that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Elmer walked as far as the doorstep with them, carrying the shopping so that she could hold the stack of books. He had suggested the reverse, pointing out that a shirt and a few eggs were far lighter than seven decently sized books, but she had reminded him that she was not _that_ weak — not anymore, anyway, not now that she regularly had three square meals a day — and that she could handle herself just fine.

“If that’s what’ll make you happy,” he’d said, and she’d heaved the books up a bit higher and smiled, which had been enough to shut him up about it.

“Is the weird man staying for dinner?”

“He’s called Elmer, Czes.”

“It’s okay, Niki. He can call me whatever he wants as long as he smiles!”

She sighed, gesturing with a nod of her head for Czeslaw to open the door. The boy was decidedly _not_ smiling, and she didn’t have to guess why — there were no strangers _stranger_ than Elmer.

“You can stay if you want to. _I_ don’t care.” She watched Czeslaw bolt inside ahead of her, then looked back to him.

“Nah, that’s okay.” He waved off the offer with a shrug and a grin. “I’ve got some things to do — but, hey, make sure he smiles while I’m not here, okay?”

“I’m not going to say _no_ to that.” She pressed her back against the door to prop it open, narrowing her eyes. “But I’m not going to do it _because_ you told me to.”

She was going to do it because that was her job now, making sure that Czeslaw was looked after, and because he was a _good kid_ and he deserved to be happy, unlike her — and because someone whose words mattered more to her had asked her to long before Elmer did.

Elmer laughed.

“You make a good big sister, Niki.”

Her lips drew into a frown, recalling that morning and _Niki Meyer_ ; the person she would never get to be with the family she would never have.

“What’s with that look? You make a good friend, too, if that’s what you’re —”

“I’ll see you later, Elmer.”

She shut the door before he could tell her to smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Her bedroom window looked out onto the streets, and it was a form of self-injury to sit beside it and watch the world pass by. Every storefront was a memory; every adult was a conspirator; every child was a question — _are you okay? Have they gotten to you yet? Has the city gotten to you yet?_ She could not forgive it, not an ounce of it. Some nights she _thought_ she had, because she could not feel anything at all, but other nights she felt it far too much, the sting of what it had given her and what it had failed to give; what kind of world would give a girl a black eye but not a family name? The kind that made her wary of everything in her line of vision. The kind that made her wonder grimly how many girls like her there _were_. Some nights she wished she could cry for them, wished that the guilt of her inaction and the shame of her powerlessness could expunge itself through tears, but a part of her was always relieved when she couldn’t.

If she started to care too much about the world it would be difficult to leave it.

— And if there _were_ other girls like her in it, they would learn that lesson soon, too.

“Am I interrupting?”

She hadn’t heard the door open, but no surprise showed on her face when she turned to look.

“No, you’re not.”

He _was_ — interrupting her thoughts, but they could bear interrupting. Half-truths were instinct; they were _easy_. She smiled as she moved to press her back to the glass, cold through the thin fabric of her nightgown but not as cold as it had made her feel to face it.

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

He and Begg had been hard at work when they had arrived home that day, and if she had not known this she would have been able to guess from the scent that clung to him; chemicals she could not name and the haunting smell that all burning things leave behind. It was not grotesque inherently, but neither was it pleasant; sometimes she was reminded too much of the thick smog of her previous workshop, and would feel her throat grow tight as if choking on it — but then she would remind herself that these people had shown her kindness. She trusted their intentions, even if she did not trust the products of them. Rather than with broken children and cruel handlers, she tried to teach herself to associate the scent with _him_ , and when she did this she would find that it brought comfort in the place of fear.

He waited just at the doorway, ever too well-mannered to overstep his boundaries, and Niki forgot for a moment that there was a boundary there at all — that it was within her rights to decide who could enter her personal space, that she _had_ personal space to begin with. She offered a small nod of her head, unable to find apt words to explain that he did not _have_ to await her permission; he would surely say that he could not help it, that it was as natural for him to show respect as it was for her to not expect any. He was far too good of a person. Frustratingly good, at times; goodness that she ached for in a way that was not quite envy. It made her feel —

It made her _feel_ , and that was the trouble. He had once told her ‘ _the chains that ensnare us will one day be bonds that strengthen us **’**_ **,** yet still she worried that the chains ensnaring her were being pulled too tightly — how they looped around her heart and tugged, and _tugged_ , until the reluctant thing started beating again, _thump_ by unwilling _thump_.

“You were reading to Czes?” she asked, noticing the book in his hands as he sat down beside her — noticing more than just that; noticing the way he held it, fingers relaxed against the binding, reflecting calmness and confidence even in this small mannerism, noticing the flecks of ink on the cuff of his shirt, noticing how his smile lifted at the corners when she spoke, noticing… a lot more than she felt it was reasonable to, a lot more than she would take the time to notice about anyone or anything else in this life.

“It’s something I wanted to read to _you_ , actually, if you’d like.”

“I would,” she replied, the hum of enthusiasm an unnatural shift in her monotone. “I’d like that.”

She never used to have an interest in books. They were no good if they couldn’t be read, and their stories were no good if they couldn’t be believed. Niki had decided a long time ago that the things she could not have were not worth wanting, and yet — this man continued to challenge that decision. She never used to have an interest in books, or in family, or in romance, knowing that these were beyond her reach and unwilling to struggle for them.

Then she’d heard him read, and she had discovered that her name was not the only thing his voice breathed life into. He made _every_ word he uttered meaningful; Niki had no problem accepting that existence itself was meaning _less_ , but when she listened to him she sometimes found herself doubting it.

It was confusing, it made her question things that by all accounts she would rather not question — and it was wonderful, it was wonderful and _he_ was wonderful, and these questions, when raised by him, felt somehow liberating.

He opened the book and began to read; she closed her eyes and began to listen.

She recognised it. He had taken her to see the play a few weeks earlier. The passage was beautiful and apt, far too _apt_.

“You spoke to Czes,” she murmured in the pause of a line break.

“He may have brought up a certain discussion the two of you had.”

She didn’t have to open her eyes to know that he was smiling — it carried in his voice — and Niki sighed, only to herself, because she could not smile back.

“Fermet, could I ask you a question?”

“Anything, Niki.”

“Is it… Do you think it’s _important_ to have a last name?”

“‘ _A rose by any other name —_ ’”

“I know that’s what the book says — I _heard_ — but what do _you_ think?”

If anyone had a say on this it was _him_ , practised as he was in the art of crafting meaning.

“I think that the importance is in the reason, Niki. To some, yes, having a surname is undoubtedly important. To them, it carries history. It is a tribute to their parents and to their ancestors — but without that link it is _nothing_. If you were to give yourself an arbitrary surname merely for the sake of having one, you would find it would be even less integral to your identity than not having one at all.”

“I… I see.”

She set her head back against the window, breathing in slowly. She had been right, then. She would never have a last name, not a _real_ one. It was a relief, she supposed, to hear it confirmed that being _gifted_ one would not solve that problem.

“Which is why if you _are_ to adopt a surname, I believe it should be with good reason. It should carry its _own_ history. For instance, if you choose to marry —”

She opened her eyes at this, frown drawing ever deeper.

“I can’t see myself marrying.”

“No?”

She asked herself again to see if she could come up with another answer.

_But you can’t, right?_

She recalled the conversation earlier, she recalled that she did not have anything to offer as a bride — she did not have a dowry, she did not even have a _birth certificate_ — she recalled that she should not live long enough to be wed, she recalled that even Elmer, _even Elmer_ , who was more optimism than man, could not envision her taking someone’s hand — and she shook her head.

 _No_.

“I wouldn’t make a good wife,” was her simple answer.

“Now, I’m sure that’s not true.”

There were muffled shouts on the streets below — there always were, but Niki only started paying attention to them that she would have an excuse not to hear what he was saying. How? _How_ could he be sure of that? Part of her longed to accept it. He was intelligent and well-read; surely he knew better than her what qualified a person for marriage. A part of her was too set in accepting the more familiar truth ( _you don’t get to have this, you don’t get to have_ anything). A part of her could never stop seeing herself as that hollow girl from years ago, even as she outgrew all of her.

“You have a remarkable heart, Niki, beneath it all. So caring and selfless, always willing to offer your hand.”

 _Wrong_.

_Wrong. Wrong._

Being described to her was a person she had never met — no, being described to her was _him_ , more than anyone else. _He_ was caring and selfless. He had offered his hand to her when all she’d wanted was death. He had a heart so remarkable it shone through in every syllable he spoke, every gesture he made, every expression. He was all of that. _She_ was not.

“I’m not selfless at all.”

“Your actions beg to differ. You look after Czeslaw as though he’s your own kin — do you know how lonely he was before you came into his life? — and you’ve gone out of your way to help me, even knowing the risks, haven’t you?”

“I…”

Being described to her was… her. Her own actions, put into context with suggestions about her nature she had never dared to think on. She did look after Czes. She did help Fermet. She did. But did that make her selfless? She _wanted_ to be needed. Wasn’t that just another form of selfishness?

“You take on so many burdens, Niki,” he said, with a voice so grieved she could feel the ache in her own chest — and then the flutter, as his hand laid gently over hers. “All for the sake of ensuring that others don’t have to carry them. A home is not built by one person, and you have contributed as much as any of us to make this place _our_ home. Is that not selfless? Is that not _remarkable_?”

Her lips parted in silent response. How could she have helped to make a home when she did not know what a home was supposed to be in the first place? It sounded impossible. It sounded unbelievable. She tried to say _no_ , but her mouth was not willing to form the word.

She wanted very much to believe it.

“And though I hardly think that appearance should be a defining factor, it’s worth adding that you’re also very pretty.”

She had heard as much before — but it sounded different from him. He said _pretty_ like it ought to describe a person, not an object, like it was a trait and not a selling point.

“So tell me, Niki, why you have it in your head that no one would give their name to a woman who is beautiful, caring, and selfless. Anyone would be lucky to marry you.”

She was not sure she breathed at all listening to this, reluctant to make any sound that might pollute these words.

“Anyone?” she heard herself ask, distantly, faintly, while her attention fixed on him. She did not mean to say _anyone_. She did not care whether she could marry _anyone_. That was not the question.

“Within reason, I should think. You might have trouble wooing an _aristocrat_ , but that can be said for the majority of us,” he laughed.

No, that was not the question.

“What about you, Fermet?”

But _that_ was too close to the question. Her mouth went dry, and she drew back; half-truths, she reminded herself, those were what she dealt in.

“— Do you plan to marry?”

“Ah… No, no. I don’t think I _could_.”

She wanted suddenly to repeat every word he had told her back to him. If he could not, then how could she? He was twice the person she was.

“Why not? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all, Niki. It’s simple.” His fingers traced her knuckles, an idle gesture — she wondered if he even noticed he was doing it. _She_ noticed. “I’m afraid I would make an awful husband. I’m sure that must sound hypocritical now, but in my case it’s the truth.”

She shook her head, not calmly as she had before, but with intent.

“I don’t believe that at all.”

He was quiet. Had she responded too quickly, too loudly? Had she spoken out of turn? She worried at her lip, and when he responded her gaze was somewhere else.

“You think too well of me, Niki.”

He was wrong, she decided — he was right about many things, but he was wrong about this. He had told her that anyone would be lucky to give her their name, but surely they would be _luckier_ to be given his.

**Author's Note:**

> If I have to think about 'Niki Viralesque' then all of you have to, too. Cursed name.


End file.
